Shot in the Dark
by emmerson-echo
Summary: Post Reichenbach reunion Fic. Written for the Johnlock Grab Bag Challenge on tumblr. I had hailsatanacab's prompt "Will you listen to me, for once in your life, just listen!" Summary: He quickly dove behind the nearest side street and peered back into the deserted road. The shell fire ceased and the stalemate began.


Your life is supposed to flash before your eyes when you're in danger of death. Every Hollywood movie says so. But there's a huge difference between make believe and reality. When shots began to ring out in the abandoned street John's life didn't flash before his eyes, in fact everything became calm and steady. He saw no fond childhood memories or moments of laughter. His vision became focused and his mind resolute. The army and one amazing, fantastic year with Sherlock Holmes had installed in him a code of conduct for when danger arose. He quickly dove behind the nearest side street and peered back into the deserted road. The shell fire ceased and the stalemate began.

* * *

The day had started out plain. Sherlock would have described it as tedious and boring without a doubt. John went through the motions, the same routine he went through ever day. Wake up, shower, and pour a cup of tea. It had taken him the longest time to not forget and prepare an extra cup; dead men can't drink tea after all. He had read the paper that morning; there were no longer any mentions of a genius's suicide lurking within the pages to haunt him. That was old news and John was able to read in relative peace. He went to surgery, he worked, he took his lunch break, and then returned to work. A repetitive and stagnate cycle had taken over his life.

Sherlock had been his excitement and drive. The Detective had been a fire burning so intense he often destroyed everything in his path. Rather than repel John though it had only inspired and drawn him in. The promise of adventure and purpose claimed and enveloped him. He became so absorbed in Sherlock and the life he provided that when the man died only a deep gapping wound was left. He had been broken down by the very man who had rebuilt him just a year before. John Watson went through the motions of living in a world he no longer desired to be a part of. Without his mad detective what was the point?

That night John had taken a double shift in the ER department of the clinic. There was no reason to go home early; he would just end up throwing together something to eat and falling asleep. Both of which were useless, not to mention possibly detrimental. John tried not to let himself have much free time anymore, not unless he wanted flashbacks. The images would flay open his idle mind and leave him itching to shoot the walls. Shoot anything.

He convinced Sarah to let him on for another shift. She gave him a worried look even as she agreed though. Sarah knew he was avoiding his grief resolutely, attempting to block it out and keep it under lock and key. Everyone knew. It had been just over a year since Sherlock's fall and yet people still gave him the same looks. He could see it in every face. They were all laced with pity and it made John sick. He hated being thought of as weak.

John wrapped up with his last patient and sent a nurse in to finish with the paperwork. He threw on his jacket grudgingly and stepped into the cold night air. Winter was coming and the wind bit at his skin even through the thick jacket. As he walked under the streetlights he checked his phone quickly. Two texts from Greg about some pub event coming up, he ignored them. One from Mrs. Hudson, she needed him to grab her a few things from the store "If it's not to much bother dear". He turned at the stop light and changed his route home. There was a 24 hour market not to far from Baker Street, he may as well grab Mrs. Hudson her things.

John sent her a quick affirmative reply before checking the last message. Mycroft Holmes's name flashed up at him in bold letters from the screen. He deleted it before even reading a word. The bastard hadn't tried to contact him in months and there was no way John was talking to him now. He was a Watson, he could and would hold a grudge to outlive god.

* * *

Shopping in hand John stepped back out onto the street to find it desolate. There wasn't a car or person in sight. He checked his watch. It had been approaching midnight when he left the clinic and was now nearing the early hours of the morning. The night shift he had taken technically only went till 11pm but he had pushed it as long as possible. Finally a co-worker had taken over and sent him home; that hadn't been the first time. The doctors and nurses all knew John would drive himself into the ground if they didn't cut him off. He dreaded having to go back to Baker Street though, it suffocated him and he hated it. But he just couldn't bring himself to leave. John couldn't abandon such an important part of what he had left of that mad impossible man.

The street lights cast an eerie glow down onto the damp pavement as John walked on past closed up shops and dark apartment windows. There was a shifting movement to his left and he turned quickly to face the alleyway beside him, but nothing was there. The alleyway was dark and empty just like the street he walked on. He could have sworn he'd seen a man in his peripheral vision. He watched the shadowed alley intently for another beat before dismissing it. John continued towards home with his senses more attuned to the surroundings. It was unsettling now that he was aware of it. Absolutely no one was present. Every alleyway he looked down was empty and even the sounds of London seemed dimmed. This was not natural. John quickened his pace.

He drew nearer and nearer to Baker Street and began to slowly let himself relax. He set his worries aside, blaming them on work and lack of sleep, as he drew near to home. I'll have to put the shopping up in my fridge for the night and take it down to Mrs. Hudson in the morning, John decided. That was his last thought before he heard it. There was the click of a riffle barrel, a harsh dissonant sound that broke the calm and crashed through John like a storm. Danger it screamed. He dropped his shopping and just as the bullets began to fire he had swung himself into the nearest alley and plastered his back against the wall. He peaked out around the corner. His demeanor switched from Doctor to Soldier in seconds. If he were a sniper were would the best vantage point be? John's mind was focused in a way it hadn't been in over a year. This was what he had missed and desperately craved. I'm a damn lunatic for enjoying this, he thought. A determined smile formed on his face all the same.

John began to plan and analyze. The sniper was smart. John was almost positive he knew which building the man was hiding within and it was brilliant. If John tried to backpedal through this alleyway and take another route home he would inevitably end up entering the snipers range once again. The gunman had perfect visibility of the streets surrounding 221B. Even if John could exit the alley and get away, the sniper would just wait until John went home. Then shoot him dead right there on his doorstep.

As John narrowed down his options he leaned in towards the street. He needed a better view and this just wasn't cutting it. A bullet whizzed by his head and he jerked back into his hideout. He hadn't been able to see enough of the street and cursed vehemently as he tried to work out another strategy to get a better view. John's heart clenched when a far different sound than guns or bullets cut through the gloomy glow of the empty street though. It echoed loudly from the adjacent alleyway and froze John on the spot.

"Come now Moran! I had heard such great things about you!" The loud commanding voice had a deep baritone cadence. "You're supposed to be Moriarty's second in command!" That familiar smug nature was etched in every word and John never knew he could miss the sound of one voice so much in his whole life. His head shot to look across the street. "If you can't even hit one target in the middle of an open and abandoned street then I'm afraid there really is no hope for you." In an alleyway directly across from his stood Sherlock Holmes peering up at Moran's vantage point with a face of pure determination.

John's hands dug into the brick wall behind him. Another shot rang through the night but it came no where near where he stood. In the adjacent side street Sherlock jerked back and smirked. "Not even close. You're going to have to try harder than that." His voice was booming and amused. He was enjoying every second as he taunted the sniper. A man named Moran, Sherlock had said. Sirens began to wail in the distance. "Pack up now Moran, you've lost your last chance!"

Sherlock slowly began to withdraw back into the shadows of the alley. He then turned to leave. He would take another side street and disappear to who knows where. No! John's mind screamed, he couldn't loose him, not when he was so close! He flung away from the wall. "Wait! Sher-" a bullet hit the brick near his head just barely missing him. The sniper was determined. Even if it cost him dearly he would not give up on his target. John hid back against the hard bricks and swore. His eyes returned to look across the street expecting it to be empty. The wisps of Sherlock Holmes would be gone, they would dematerialized and disappear leaving John alone once more.

A familiar face met his though when he looked across the road. The immediate eye contact of a "ghost" took John off guard. He was staring at a dead man and the dead man was staring back. He didn't know what to think. Sherlock drew out his phone just as two police cars zoomed by sirens blaring. John watched his fingers type at a rapid pace. He tried to call out but he couldn't get even a decimal of sound from his throat. His mind wasn't even forming fully coherent thoughts. A chime went off in his pocket and Sherlock looked back up at him. A small almost guilty smile was on his face.

**Exit through the back street and take a right. Go from there two blocks take a left and then three more blocks. Mycroft has a car waiting. –SH **John looked up from his phone and felt anger flash through him. His mind had been grappling in an attempt to decide what he was feeling and had apparently decided fury was the best choice. He abused the phone keys as he ground out a quick response and sent it.

**I want an explanation! What the hell was all that!? **Sherlock looked up at him with sad resignation. A moment later another text came through on John's phone.

**Soon. –SH **Soon? No not soon John's mind raged. He needed answers now damn it! His feet itched to dash across the lamp lit street. If it weren't for the risk of a bullet in his head he would have already run across and grabbed the other man. He would punch him, or hug him. John didn't know which, but either way he would demand answers.

John began to beat a reply into his phone before pausing. Why the hell was he texting! The man was right across the damn street!

"Sherlock Holmes!" He yelled. "You tell me what's going on right fucking now! If it weren't for that damn sniper I'd be over there strangling you right now!" A small smirk spread over Sherlock's features.

**I believe I should be thanking Moran then for indirectly saving my life. –SH**

"Sherlock this isn't goddamn funny!" John fumed. He was barely holding himself back. Screw the sniper, the police or Mycroft's men had probably already apprehended him anyways! John took a determined step forward towards the street, and then heard a laugh. It was a sound he had missed so much it caused him pain. Sherlock was beaming at him like a mad man. John's anger melted right there. This was Sherlock Holmes he was talking to. His Sherlock Holmes. The man who he had lived with, solved crimes with, and blogged for. The great man that with a bit of luck may just become a good one. He had come back.

**Quite the contrary, it's hilarious. I come back from the dead and you threaten to send me right back again. –SH **

"You have such a sick sense of humor." John mumbled before laughing a bit to himself. He couldn't help but meet Sherlock's smile with one of his own. Relief was washing over him in waves.

**Meet me at Mycroft's, I'll explain everything then. –SH **Sherlock then turned to leave again. He no longer had his coat and the movement lacked its usual flare but John still reveled in its familiarity. As he watched the slim body moving away he was suddenly gripped with fear. What if he never saw Sherlock again? What if Moran had escaped? John didn't think he could stand it if directly after seeing Sherlock was alive and well, after all this time, the man ended up with a bullet in his brain. John took a few more steps out of his alley and called out. Sherlock turned and glanced at him with brief confusion.

"Sherlock, will you do something for me? Will you listen to me?" John asked. Sherlock grinned then spoke directly to John for the first time in months.

"I already told said I would inform you of everything John. I'll see you soon after I've taken care of a few pressing matters."

"No I mean-" Sherlock began to stride away again. "Sherlock! For once in your life, just _listen_!" John's tone had become rushed and frantic. Sherlock turned once again. This time resigned to be attentive. He could hear the terror leaking through John's tone and the importance of what the other man needed to say. "Please Sherlock. I-I can't lose you again. Keep yourself safe ok. I'll never forgive you if you don't show up and explain this whole mad mess to me." John's voice trailed off towards the end and he clutched his fists as he stared determinedly at the man in the alleyway. Sherlock's face was almost masked in shadows.

"Now where's the fun in that?" Sherlock said this with a quick grin before running in the other direction. John stood there dumbstruck by shock for a moment. Fear tore at him. Sherlock had made no promises of safety and John's imagination flashed gunshot wounds before his mind; images of individuals he had seen die the very same way. Then a text came through on his phone.

**I promise I'll stay safe John, but only if you do too. Only for you. –SH **

**Deal. **John typed out, his mind finally put at ease for the first time in months. Sherlock was home. He completely forgot about the shopping he had left scattered on the street and followed the quick route to a sleek black car that awaited him under the lambent streetlights.


End file.
